As a consultant I help advise organizations about their operations by questioning their effectiveness and efficiency. In other words, are they doing the right thing and are they doing that thing right? I just can’t help but questioning volunteering in the same way.

Let me start by analysing what the problem is we are providing help for. The problem essentially is the human thing. People fleeing their countries for reasons I can understand, may it be hunger, war or oppression. The solution we should be looking for is how to make sure those people want to stay there. We could make some great efforts in paying proper prices to fair organizations for products such as coffee, cloths and diamonds, thus enabling proper wages. We could stop providing weapons to countries that use them to shoot their children, thus enabling a safer environment. We could stop buying oil from corrupt regimes that will use the money to oppress their citizens, thus enabling free thinkers. But we don’t do any of those things. It costs us too much money.

And so we are left looking at the second best solution. Making sure the people can go to the nearest safe place and return when they feel the conditions have improved. The problem here is these countries are not safe either; they are struggling with wars themselves or have already taken in more than they can handle. The situation here is still hopeless, I cannot blame anyone from moving on further. But we can help. We could give financial aid to countries, which is invested in camps where people have a chance of making a living, children can go to school and there is a future. We could bust the smuggler networks making millions on illegal passages. We do none of that, it take too much time.

Instead we try to stop the people, literally. We fund the country that arrests refugees trying to get to safer places. We fund the country that deliberately let’s people drown and even aids them by stabbing their boats or firing water cannons at them. We send troops to their borders stopping illegal passages and we fund barbed wire fences. Whichever is the cheapest and stops the problem from heading our way. Perhaps we have forgotten our own history?

And even worse, this is not solving the problem. People still are heading our way to apply for asylum in places where they can sleep soundly at night. And this is where I come in, helping them provide a safe passage to set foot in Europe. I feel angry; I wish there was no need for me. Yet I am needed and I want to make it work in the best way possible.

When volunteering around the Greek islands there are several ways to help out. Organisations have specialized in rescuing people on water, providing medical care, distributing food and cloths, building shelters or assisting in the administrative process. So are we doing the right thing and this thing right? Well not exactly.

When looking at rescues from a logistics point of view, there are solutions which are much more effective. I’d define effective as getting people safely into Europe. Why don’t we allow the people to board ferries? Why don’t we send them good boats and life jackets? Why don’t we ride along with them and show them a safe passage? Why don’t we hand out our numbers so they can call us in case of emergencies? It’s illegal.

I would argue making rescue missions obsolete would also be much more efficient. I’d define efficient as getting people into Europe at the lowest costs possible. What if we could save the money that goes into rescuing people, big marine vessels and coast guard ships working non-stop? What if we could save the money that gets lost to smugglers, which could be used by people to buy their own shelter and food? What if we did not need the many volunteers watching the water every day and they could be at home working? What if nobody ends up being traumatized, losing relatives or getting sick during the crossing? We would all win.

Even on a smaller scale there is so much inefficiency that working here can become really discouraging. At the three boat landings I have witnessed so far there were an average of 9 different organizations. Some had specific tasks, some wore uniforms and some had received training. And there were others who came in for two days, made selfies with babies and left again. I’ve seen a man film the entire landing, completely unaware that he was standing in the way. I’ve witnessed a woman grabbing a child and walking away from the boat. The kid lost eye contact with his mother and started crying uncontrollably. I saw volunteers wrapping emergency blankets around people as if it were magic capes. And there are organizations handing out croissants when refugees have to take a bumpy bus ride just minutes later. Mostly the busses end up full of vomit. As discouraging as it may be, it might still be a good thing. The selfies get shared on Facebook, the film is shown in their home country and they all are people who have the kindness in their hearts to want to help.

Sometimes, after getting up at 5 A.M. and a futile 6 hour watch shift, I ask myself why I am here and I remember one specific story. An elderly lady born in 1944 in Berlin told me she was born hopeless, the youngest of 8 children to a single mother. There were great famines and poor babies just died; she was never supposed to live. But she did because every time when was on the verge of collapsing a stranger donated some milk. If not for that drop of milk, she might not have stood here today. So I just keep on going and help, one drop at a time.

Just imagine. You live in a beautiful country; the weather is nice, it has a rich history and lovely old architecture. Your father and grandfather built their families and business there, you went to college and have a good job. 3 years later your country is broken to pieces, you have to miss your entire family and you are an asylym seeker in Ridderkerk, the Netherlands. After wandering through a whopping 16 different whereabouts you are back at the boot landing sites in Greece. Today I tell the story of Ibrahem Khaola (27) – volunteer at the Dutch Boat Refugee Foundation.

Damascus – Syria

Ibrahem Khaola is born in Syria in 1988. He has an older sister named Alaa and a younger sister called Sara. He lives with both his parents in Damascus. His father owns a stone factory and has a rich life; plenty of money for all they need, a good family and a quiet life. Ibrahim earned a degree in electrical engineering at a community college, plays soccer twice a week and visits his family daily. But unlike his father he is not completely happy with his life.

Like many youngsters in 2010 he own a smartphone and reads about the world around him. He notices things go a little different in Syria; there are no trains, no subways and the power is held by the same family for the last 40 years. In March 2011 he decides to organize a demonstration for democracy. The protests are hosted by the university, mosque or facebook networks. His father warns him; “Don’t do it, it is better for everyone.” They continued to hand out pamphlets with slogans like; no dictatorship, no Bashar al-Assad, freedom.

The devious dictator reacts with a ban on assembly. al-Assad decides to start using tear-gas and arrests the youth. 90% of the arrested are never to be seen again, only a tiny 10% is ever released. They serve as a terrible warning to others. One of Ibrahems friends undergoes this fate and tells his horrible story. He was left standing on one leg for an entire week, hands bound above his head. He did not have any food or water untill he figured that one hour of beating would result in one cup of water. He barely survived.

To avoid futher arrests the demonstations become shorter and less predictable. They spend 10 minutes protesting in one area and cover the entire place with posters. Because of this technique, al-Assad loses even more power and the new revolution gains status. Still Ibrahem had never heard any weapon being fired yet, but this changed quickly. The police started shooting and there were no safe places anymore for the protesters. Once hit the hospital was out of the question, and clandestine surgery was performed in dimly lit rooms by friendly doctors. What Ibrahem stresses the most is the complete inbalance and unfairness; it is weapons vs. freedom.

The countryside starts taking up arms and the Free Army is born. They buy their weapons from corrupt army officials. The very same power they fight is supplying their enemies for extra cash. The resistance grows stronger, revenge is a big theme in the Arab culture and by then everyone has been personally hurt by losses. Grandpas, sisters and boys nextdoor start fighting as well. al-Assad has gained another problem; soldiers refuse to shoot their own friends. He responds by sending them to other cities. Homs’ soldiers in Damascus, Damscus’ soldiers in Aleppo, etc. Many of them through put down their weapons and flee in response. Bashar al-Assad sends tanks into the cities; it is war.

For Ibrahem it is no longer safe to travel to work; the roads have turned into battlefields. He has two options; fight or flee. He says; “Weapons, that is just not me.” and shakes his head while telling this part. He escapes Syria on January 12th 2013 with his cousin Osama and his boss, through Beirut to Istanbul. He leaves all what is dear to him and his beloved country is broken.

Istanbul – Turkey

In Turkey the boys meet a real estate agent on their very first day; he arranges for a place to live and has a job for them. Being illegal Ibrahem ends up at a bakery where is heavily exploited by his new boss. For 400$ a month, he works 14 hours a day, 7 days a week. He barely manages to save any money and dreams of a day off. When I ask him why he wouldn’t apply for asylum there and try to find work legally his reply is simple. Turkey has no legal procedure to stay in the country, only endless camps with tents, no food and no work.

After he manages to pick up a few English words life gets a little easier. He finds a new job making furniture; same hours, same pay but only 5 days of work a week. After working non-stop for 3 months he finally sees a little of Istanbul. He speaks fondly of its inhabitants. After the Sugar Festival his kitchen is filled with dishes of complete strangers, caring neighbours he had never met before.

Another 3 months pass by and he manages to get an even better job; for 1000$ a month he works construction; same hours still. Finally he can start thinking about his future. He wants to pick up studying and get a job which involves a fair treatment, both impossible for him in Turkey. His friends want to go to Egypt or Algeria but Ibrahem fears their wars. He decides to approach a smuggler an takes a bus to Izmir to board a boat to Europe.

Ikarea, Samos and Athens – Greece

With 45 persons he boards a boat which is obviously inadequate. He tells his mother he is going by car to stop her from worrying. He leaves all his money in Istanbul with his friends – it would be a shame if it sank alongside him. He does have a life jacket, but he hasn’t a clue if it is a real one. Like almost all of the refugees, he has heard about the terrors of the crossings, but those story just don’t cut it. The steersman is a refugee who has never seen a boat before in his life. He followed a little light and drifted way off course. 9 hours later the group arrived on the island of Ikarea, Greece. They are transported to the island of Samos by the authorities.

All 45 of them are lined up in the Samos’ police station. Ibrahem is number 14. He has to hand over all dangerous goods but all he carries are 50 euros, one pair of boxers, a shawl, a necklace his little sister gave him and a bottle of his mother’s perfume. His necklace is deposited and the perfume thrown out. He protests; it is the only memory of his mother he has left. The officer laughs at him and says he does not care.

The following three weeks the group is detained without any contact with the outside world. His cousin Osama calls his mother daily and lies about just talking to Ibrahem and how he is doing just fine. Nobody knows if he is still alive. In jail all 45 refugees are forces to enter the cantine through a window every single day. You have entered Greece through a window, now you must do it to get food. There was a perfectly fine door right next to it but even the children and elderly were forbidden from using it. He tells me he wanted to bite the police and I want to join him.

All of sudden they are released and receive a paper which grants them access to Greece for 6 months. Ibrahem has zero intention of staying in this country and buys a ferry ticket to Athens for 44 euros. With only 6 euros in his pocket and the Western Union offices closed he has no other option but to sleep on the streets. The next day he is able to pick up his money and sleep in a hotel.

All the while Europe has tightened many of its borders and there are no legal options for him to carry on North. A smuggler offers to take him to Germany for 4000 euros, but he does not have the money. He hears about fake Italian identification papers and decides to fly to Italy. Obtaining the ID card is peanuts; you step into a certain cafe and a Algerian lady approaches you. 80 euros and one day later you are Italian, on paper at least.

Ibrahem books a plane ticket and tries to get on the very next flight. Customs is specialized in cases like his and immediately spots him. After seeing his ID the officer starts rambling in Italian and Ibrahem knows he is lost. His ID is ripped and he is sent back emptyhanded. He repeats this process another 3 times and gets more and more disappointed.

The fifth time he lingers over the optimal strategy all week. He gel-spikes his hair, slaps on a magnet earring and carries a book under his arm. He walks towards the customs officers with full self-confidence and it works. In the airplane he straps himself in straight away; no one is gonna stop him now. He is beyond exicted.

Milan, Paris and Amsterdam – Italy, France and the Netherlands

In Milan Ibrahem plans on moving on quickly. He buys a train ticket to Paris and starts overthinking his final destination. It became clear to him very sudden. When thinking of the Netherlands he pictures cheese, milk and windmills and he was crazy about windmills. He bought a ticket to Amsterdam and arrived at Central Station at 11 at night.

Without having any sense of direction he wandered the streets of Amsterdam. He smells strange odours and feels very happy, almost like he is flying. He does not remember how long he spends walking but he ends up at a police station applying for asylum.

With a trainticket to Ter Apel in his pocket he starts his journey in the Netherlands. He is sent to 5 different asylum centres. Six months after his adventures on a boat he finally lands a proper home in Ridderkerk. The first year he is lonely and struggles to connect. He studies the Dutch language and walks around the village.

One night he sees some boys and girls building houses of cardboard on the streets. It turns out to be the ‘night without a roof’, a demonstation against homelessness. Because he knows what it is like to sleep on the streets he joins in and sleeps on the street for one more night. He get to know some of the people and they invite him to their hangout place. He joins them for soccer and makes his first friends, including his good friend Rik. Rik, his mother and her sister make plans on volunteering in Greece and invite Ibrahem to join them, he could act as an interpretor.

Lesvos – Greece

Ibrahem is back where he once used to be, but has moved on in so many ways. Here he is known as happy face – he is always smiling and has conquered everyone’s hearts. He is so happy to help the refugees but feels sad a the same time for his country and his people. He is very open about his story and adds that he has another 10% he is not sharing. I won’t aks him about it.

Ibrahem’s future looks bright. His Dutch is amazing and he is up for a final exam soon. If he passes he is eledgible for starting a next level Electical Engineering course and will finally start studying windmills. He misses his mother dearly and hopes to obtain a real passport soon to visit her. He want everyone to read his story. His biggest dream is becoming a famous Ridderkerker.

We are in the middle of the storm here in Lesvos, right in the epicentre of the refugee stream towards Europe. The primary entry point of the Garden of Eden a.k.a. the EU. And at the moment we are in the eye of the storm, an awkward and dangerous silence. All the turbulence spinning around us, across the water in Turkey, in the centre of the island in the mega camp of Moria. We are not sure what is happening, but it will start hitting us soon.

As full as the camp was yesterday it is deserted today. In the tent next door the boxes full of baby socks and blankets are waiting to meet new refugees. The Dutch medical tent has a waiting room outside, now filled with waiting volunteers. In the back of my head voices start whispering if I am here in vain, if we should pack up the camp and move to another island perhaps. There are rumours about new laws criminalizing volunteering, about marine ships who arrest any refugee they see and EU plans in the making. If we already feel like the plaything of the politicians, how unsettling must these rumours make the refugees feel?

Let me explain a bit more about their journey here. In their home country they often have to escape on foot through the mountains to safer territory. They walk for hours if not days carrying what little they could afford to take with them. They cross the borders illegally and make sure they do not end up in one of the mass refugee camps. Somehow all the people we meet have survived this so far. The next thing is to find a safe passage from Turkey to Greece. On the opposite shore the shops will sell life jackets on every street corner and hustlers pick up anyone looking refugee-ish. You can buy a ticket for about 750-2000 euros, depending on the weather conditions and your nationality. Afghans for example get discounts and in return crappier life jackets and slots. They will guide the people into the jungle and have them await an appropriate moment. I have spoken to an Afghan man waiting for 3 days without food or water. I have seen life jackets with nothing but bubble wrap inside and children wearing nothing but inflatable Nemo toy jackets. They are told the trip takes them 25 minutes, but the 12-kilometre journey usually takes several hours. They have to walk into the water until their waist and are soaking wet the entire trip, crowding together with too many people. And the boats they arrive in are the worst. A local of Lesvos put it like this: “Their boats are only good enough to be coffins.” If the Turkish coast guard catches them they are imprisoned and the smuggler goes free. If they make it across they still face rocky cliffs and panic, the latter making them their own worst enemies. Sometimes a boat capsizes when all people lean one way towards help when they are just minutes from being saved. On shore, if we have spotted them and are able to guide them towards a clear beach, we meet them with instructions, emergency blankets and transportation. We will guide them towards the nearest transit camp where they will get clean cloths, hot coffee and medical attention. On Lesvos people are transferred as soon as possible towards camp Moria, the central holding camp. A former prison guarded by policemen with shields and sticks and still surrounded by high fences and barbed wire. Welcome in Europe.

We all know Europe is divided about the human thing. They can’t seem to agree on what should happen. The people of Greece, of Lesbos, the ones I have met are not divided at all. The refugees are human and in need of help, we care for them. What happens later is not their concern; their concern is to stop dead people washing up in their back yards. The local shop owner said: “If there is no war here, why do we see dead people on the shore?” It was simply unbearable to him.

When asking about the effects of the crisis I have not heard one person complain about their own fate, their concern was with humanity, and with the island. They hate to see their beloved island be polluted by the waste of ripped open rubber boats and thousands of life jackets. Imagine a massive pile of life jackets and multiply this by a thousand. You end up with a junkyard containing over 500.000 jackets, it is so big you can swim in it, which I sort of literally did. Mixed in with the orange mass are items of clothing and personal belongings. Baby shoes, a ripped ID card and a fancy coat are there for the taking. It seems surreal, almost like an Auschwitz exhibition.

The locals also hate to see their odd set of guest closing their eyes to the beauty of the island and blindly focussing on the negative. I suddenly felt less guilty about my hours in the sun staring over the water or looking up at the starry night and visiting their castle and taking pictures of the island. Lesvos and its people are wonderful and I would invite you all to please consider spending your summer holidays here.

After a day in Greece all I saw were happy faces and sunshine. The snow had just melted and suddenly the boats stopped coming. The warmer climate encouraging the crossing was dimished by the colder political climate. The Turkish coast guard had made it their (EU funded) mission to stop all boats and trow the escapees in jail. The people we met had barely made it through their naval curtain and were just plain grateful for being safe. I feel glad to meet such joy, however I would have liked to feel somewhat more needed and that makes me feel guilty.

Me and my covolunteer Alemke were shown around Lesvos by two veteran volunteers. Two ladies who had been here before last autumn and had lived through horrific scenes. Rows of soaking wet and freezing people with nowhere to go and no carers to turn to. People in panic mode pushing their way to the front to get off boats first. And boats capsizing and sinking, people dying. When they had left the island they felt unsatisfied with the job they had done, eager to return. Returning now showed them much more peaceful shores and well organized camps. They sat in the sun staring over the sea, silently looking for boats that didn’t come all day. I wonder if they are satisfied now, or perhaps a bit disappointed as well.

Since there wasn’t much to do at the beach we volunteered at the local camp site. Designed to hold a few dozen people for a few hours it was falling short very quickly when another 120 people were dropped off by the coast guard and the ferry strike meant people had to stay overnight. Even though people were flooding in, we still felt useless and hung around the other volunteers. I felt like a cat frollicing around its owner’s legs and constantly being in the way. It started weighing on me; being here, being quite capable and yet not knowing where to start.

We talked to some and heared about some of the people in the camp. Amongst the newcomers were many of Syrian descent, but also many with less obvious nationalities such as Iranian, Afghan and Iraqi. For some it was obvious why they fled; the war had destroyed their houses and families but others had different stories of denying military duty (Iran) or being threatened because of their humanistic (empowering women) work (Afghanistan). The first had a plan of pretending to be Syrian until reaching Germany, then counting on this degrees and thesises to speak for him. The latter produced a PDF letter on his phone in Arabic and a warning in English from his friend and dr. explaining he was under threat. Alemke explained to me she had worked with such letters before while working with human trafficking victems. They were often templates. We wondered if these two men stood a chance in Europe? Were their claims for asylum legal? At least they felt legitimate to me. I felt on one side it would be fair to explain to them that their journey might be in vain, but it would also be cruel. And perhaps they knew already and willfully manipulated me, in that case the joke is on me.

After little encourgement we soon set out on a mission to cheer up some of the smaller children by showing the art of bell blowing. It was appreciated with the biggest smiles to have the bells blow up in my own face, so I did. You could sense the parents ease up, seeing their children play for the first time since, perhaps literally, forever.

Later that afternoon we snuck into the childrens tent to help one lonely greek volunteer in her mission to entertain a group of 30 loud children. One little girl wanted me to do something and kept asking the same question over and over again. After shrugging my shoulders as a sign that I did not get it she started speaking louder, as if I were deaf. If anything she was very dedicated. Later that evening I found out she meant she was cold.

Another child, no older than 1.5, had been left in my arms by her mother. She quickly started crying and tried to run away to find her mummy, bearfoot across rocks and gravel. She did not like me stopping her at all and hit me in the face with her little soft hand. There was no doubt about it, she was very distressed and did not trust me to care for her at all. Finding her mother was the next ordeal, with the women all wearing dark coats and head scarfs. When I found her mother I was shocked by her indifference. She just took the child and kept fussing around with some of her belongings. Perhaps she was so tired she could not bear any drama, was it even fair of me to expect a thank you to me and some affection for the child?

On the other side there were people who were happy with me. I received drawings of a heart (broken, with a swoard through it?) and a rose from a boy. A girl drew me in her pictures. Or at least I think it was me, the figure had yellow hair. A third child kissed me and a mother told me over and over again she loved me.

On my first day I have been hit and kissed by in the face. I must have made quite the impression…

Humans, we’ve got a problem. Newspapers comment on it every day and I can’t open my Facebook feed without finding comments on it. You all know what I am talking about. Usually refered to as the refugee crisis, the IS terrorist war or the immigration problem, thus becomming a distant and dark thing. I’d like to refer to it as the human thing.

The human thing started a couple of years ago when people started fighting, people got scared and people started fleeing. A pretty normal human thing to do I’d say. These humans have to wage their lives, leave their possesions and become the plaything of criminal organisations in order to secure their future. If they are lucky enough to make it to safer grounds many are treated as criminals themselves, arrested, protested against and refered to as problems.

Probably not all people entering the European mainland are doing so on humanitarian grounds. There might be some who struggle to feed their kids, who hope to go to school and find a bed to sleep in at night. Again a pretty human thing I’d say.

Then there are those who fight the inflow of foreign faces, afraid to loose their own identity. ‘Feed our own people first.’ ‘Close the borders.’ Sometimes I feel ashamed for them, forgetting our tolerant nature, our own history of dispair and following the first populist politician willing to stroke them on the head. But most of the time I feel for them. You must be pretty miserable to envy a refugee. You must really hurt to forget about empathy. And then I feel ashamed of myself, for projecting my own string of thought onto them and pitying them. Who is to say I am right? Let’s just say it is a human thing.

Let’s make one thing clear. I did not study the history of these conflicts, I am no expert on their complex international nature nor did I visit these countries to witness the war. I can simply relate to all people involved and their emotions. I am flying out to Lesvos, Greece tomorrow to join a foundation giving humantarian aid to people aiming to set foot on the European shore and start their way to immigration. I will meet these humans for the first time.

ABOUT

Who I am

My name is Joëlle van der Pol. I will be in Lesvos, Greece giving humanitarian aid to refugees. I am a woman, daugther and girlfriend. Also I am a consultant, writer and entrepreneur.

I am 26 now. I grew up in a small village in the east of The Netherlands playing outside with my younger brother and sister. As soon as I was allowed I went to university in Delft, took my time and studied at least three topics. After graduation I moved in with my boyfriend and started working as a strategy consultant.

What do I do

“The volunteers of the Boat Refugee Foundation (Stichting Bootvluchteling) work on Lesbos, Leros and Kos and in Athens. Here we provide emergency aid and supplies to boat refugees. We focus on the most vulnerable among them: pregnant women, breastfeeding women and children under age 9.

The emergency aid on the islands is poorly organised. Often there is no shelter, no food, no amenities, nobody who looks out for them. The situation seems hopeless.

As a foundation we work, wherever possible, with other support organisations (UNHCR, Red Cross, et cetera) and local volunteers. The number of local volunteers is wholly insufficient. They not only provide emergency aid for thousands of refugees, but also have to deal with unwilling politicians and angry citizens. Other organisations are not yet present, or with a skeleton staff.”

Why this story

I feel helping refugees is a pretty selfish thing to do, at least for me it is.

I’d say the biggest reason for me to go to Greece is to be able to form my opninion on the human thing (see my first blogpost) from within. I’d like to confirm / change my strong feelings about the matter and feel less ignorant and biased.

Secondly I do like helping people, it makes me smile and cry at the same time. And I like the fact it does the same to them. I would like to help them a bit more by sharing their stories and photo’s, and make them feel like they matter again.